Between Pen and Paper: Flaneuring Through a Writer’s Mind – Writing at the Speed of a Melting Popsicle

By Andi Kopek

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A popsicle.

A little girl is holding a popsicle in her hand. The color is red.

It’s so hot—so steaming hot—that the popsicle is dripping on her fingers, but she doesn’t mind. She doesn’t even notice it. She licks it innocently. The popsicle drips through one finger, then the next, down her little pinky, onto her clothes, and finally, the ground. She doesn’t mind.

Why are popsicles called popsicles? Pop-sicle. From icicle? But why POP-sicle? Why not sun- sicle? Or sweet-sickle? Or slash-sickle?

When I was a little boy, I didn’t eat popsicles. Maybe ice cream on a stick—but I didn’t like them. They dripped too quickly. Dripping again. It was unpleasant. Nasty. I don’t like mess.

When I was a child I liked eating brine cucumbers instead—from a big barrel with herbs. From a local store with vegetables. Zielona Budka it was called. The Green Hut. I forgot the name of the herb. The name of the herb. The herb. But the smell was so distinct. Summers weren’t this hot or humid then. Definitely not this humid. They were bearable.

But I couldn’t step into the stream that flowed near our house. A sign nailed to a small pine tree said “Do Not Enter.” There was always this thin black line on the banks—pollution. So strange, isn’t it? That rivers are polluted? Dill. It was dill.

Same with the Baltic Sea. You’d walk along the shore and see a thin line of oil—leaking from tankers, maybe. How much oil needs to spill to leave a line like that? Shorelines stretch endlessly. So it must be a massive amount. And yet it’s just… normal. There was no way to talk about it. No one raised it as a question. No one wanted to listen.

It seemed hopeless to raise this issue. Hopelessness was everywhere. And it’s what made me move. Made me search for something else—some place where hope exists.

Because a hopeless man can’t make a difference. That’s unbearable. And passion? You couldn’t express passion. If you had feelings, you had to bury them. And you’d be dead. Had no feelings? How can you live without feelings? Also dead. Either way—passion or apathy—you were dead. So I looked for a place where you might feel alive. Really alive. And I moved.

And when I found it—disappointment. Because people are the same. Buildings are, pretty much, the same. At least similar. Some things differ, but at the core, no real changes. It was rather surprising. And disappointing.

No matter where you live, this side of the pond, or the other, this continent or that—people behave the same. Systems differ, sure. Maybe there’s more of one thing here, less of another there. But manipulation is the same. The desire to control others, the masses? The same.

Maybe there once were tribes, cultures, societies driven by different values. Not just different beliefs—different internal forces. Not focused on profit, progress, goals. But they’re gone.

Crushed. At least, they’re no longer the dominant force.

Put a peaceful person in a room with someone okay with killing… Guess who survives? The second one doesn’t blink and pulls the trigger. No hesitation. And no guilt afterward. No guilt afterward is terrifying. Can give me nightmares. That’s how people with high morality die.

That’s how reflective people disappear. That’s how good people don’t survive. Because the ones willing to negotiate, to coexist, to cooperate… by definition, they are always at a disadvantage. The ones who don’t care about destroying them? They win.

That’s how the world is skewed. And that balance? It will never be restored. Never existed. The imbalance repeats itself. One generation to the next. Until the skew becomes so extreme that people go mad and destroy each other. And justify it, of course. And then the remaining few start the cycle again.

That’s the story of human life on this planet. It’s so short. And so cyclic. We pride ourselves on our “progress.” We love talking about how our societies have “evolved.” But if you study history carefully, you’ll see, nothing is new.

We just forgot. We forget. We forget. We forget and repeat. Amnesia is built into the system. Everything from the past returns—distorted. A ghost, shifting form, always changing. We think we know it. But we don’t. We think we learn from history. But we don’t. And even if we do—it means nothing. We can’t or don’t want to act on it. Well, the ones who want, usually don’t have enough power. And if they make a change, it is rather short lived. Because of the nature of man.

So how do you enjoy life, knowing this? Knowing that we don’t learn? Knowing that goodness is always at a disadvantage? How do you live like that?

Maybe…

Maybe we just start with a popsicle. On a hot, humid, sunny August day.

At a brewery where kids run around and play…

Author’s Note

This piece was created using a stream-of-consciousness technique, beginning with a real observation of a child holding a melting popsicle at a local brewery during this summer’s extreme heat. Because my writing speed lags substantially behind the pace of my thoughts, I decided to record them instead—capturing this internal monologue as it unfolded. It was recorded on an iPhone 13Pro Max using the Voice Memos app, transcribed via Otter.ai, and lightly edited for readability.

As both a neuroscientist and writer, I’m fascinated by stream-of-consciousness as a way of capturing thought in its raw, unfiltered form—before logic and language shape it. Writers like Virginia Woolf, James Joyce, and Clarice Lispector explored this terrain, but the tone and emotional cadence of this piece are perhaps closest to the style of Thomas Bernhard. The process felt amazing, like creating in a fascinating, improvisational way, as if the thoughts were composing themselves in real time.

Final thought: One of my previous columns explored writer’s block. The stream-of- consciousness approach can be a powerful antidote for the block, allowing creativity to freeflow.

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Andi Kopek is a multidisciplinary artist based in Nashville, TN. With a background in medicine, molecular neuroscience, and behavioral change, he has recently devoted himself entirely to the creative arts. His debut poetry collection, Shmehara, has garnered accolades in both literary and independent film circles for its innovative storytelling.

When you’re in Nashville, you can join Andi at his monthly poetry workshop, participate in the Libri Prohibiti book club (both held monthly at the Spine bookstore, Smyrna, TN), or catch one of his live performances. When not engaging with the community, he's hard at work on his next creative project or preparing for his monthly art-focused podcast, The Samovar(t) Lounge: Steeping Conversations with Creative Minds, where in a relaxed space, invited artists share tea and the never-told intricacies of their creative journeys.

Between Pen and Paper: Flaneuring Through a Writer’s Mind – An Urban Legend of Writer’s Block

By Andi Kopek

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In the Writers City, you could often hear the dreaded words whispered fearfully down every alley: “Writer’s Block.”

The Writer’s Block—a haunted quarter of shuttered buildings, which rise suddenly right in the middle of Triumph Boulevard, with no detour in sight.

Or so I’ve been told.

I must confess: I’ve never encountered The Writer’s Block myself.

I know—I might sound like a snobby, egotistic, pompous windbag, but it’s the truth. Some people experience writer’s block. Some don’t.

And that prompted me to reflect on what the Writer’s Block actually is, its many forms, and the ways one can unblock the Block.

Thus, today we will flaneur through the Writers City, visiting several places belonging to the Writer’s Block: 1/ The Clock Tower of Deadlines, 2/ The Empty Fountain of Inspiration, 3/ The Old Courthouse of Rigid Thinking, 4/ The Abandon Lot of Self-Doubt, and 5/ A Charred Alley of Burnout.

Let’s start our tour.

1/ The Clock Tower of Deadlines

The Clock Tower looms high over Writers City, its giant hands ticking out a deafening rhythm: I need it now, now, now! Deadlines can create wonderful energy—a needed push—but they can also have a windchill effect: freezing the creative flow before it even begins. Writer’s brains can get filled up with deafening ticking, squishing creativity to a forgotten corner of the mind. How to deal with this major source of anxiety experienced by so many writers? I think we can divide deadlines into two categories: external and internal. Each of these requires a different approach.

External deadlines are the loudest—editorial calendars, publishing schedules, submission windows, grant applications, your significant other’s birthday. They’re real and often immovable. The bad and the good thing about them is that we have no control over them. We have no choice but to deal with them. The trick to managing external deadlines is not to fight the clock—it’s to set up a rhythm with it. Probably, the most efficient approach is to set mini deadlines along the way, which would give your creativity breathing room. These intermediary, mini deadlines need to be set in a smart way (even SMARTY way—check one of the previous columns) to work. And don’t forget to reward yourself for reaching each mini deadline. The reward can be very symbolic, but it is important for the Reward System of your brain to get it to create positive reinforcement.

I also like to set for myself a fake final deadline, a week before the actual one, and I make myself believe that the fake one is real. This gives me some wiggle room between the “fake/real” deadline and the “real/real” one, and if everything goes well, I actually can wiggle to my favorite tune during that time.

Internal deadlines, though, are trickier. They whisper rather than shout: You should’ve finished this by now. Why aren't you done yet? And these are the most uncomfortable whispers one could hear. They don’t come from editors or agents, but from the depth of ourselves—fueled by ambition, guilt, or comparison.

Luckily, unlike external deadline clocks, we can rewind internal ones. You are in charge of setting these clocks. You are the Clockmaster. The challenge, then, is to be painfully honest with yourself and answer these questions: what wound your internal clock to begin with? Was it ambition? Guilt? Comparison? Once you know the answer to these questions, you can decide whether the clock deserves to keep ticking—or if it’s time to dismantle it altogether—and give yourself the time your creativity actually needs, not the time your anxiety demands.

And remember, the answer to the question “For Whom the Bell Tolls?” is: “For you.” Sometimes to remind you to work hard—and sometimes to rest wisely.

2/ The Empty Fountain of Inspiration

Once a sparkling heart of the city, the Fountain of Inspiration now stands dry and silent, collecting trash in the forgotten corners, and pigeon droppings on the sun-bleached edges. Every writer who visits here wonders if the water will ever flow again.

It will.

Inspiration isn’t a permanent spring. It ebbs and flows with its own mysterious cycle. But it is a cycle — which means that after a dry spell, a wet season inevitably follows. Inspiration often arrives when we step away. When we stop staring at the dry basin, the fountain stream will suddenly spurt from The Fountainhead, creating ephemeral liquid sculptures, shaped by the flow and imagination.

3/ The Old Courthouse of Rigid Thinking

Built of stone and stubbornness, the Old Courthouse is where rules are written in marble: “Good writers always do X,” “Real stories must be Y.” Inside, creativity that does not align strictly with the Codex, is put on trial.

The judges wear wigs powdered with the literary canon, and the jury selection is based on MFA diplomas and certificates of self-proclaimed connoisseurs of “real literature.” In the Old Courthouse, sentences can be brutally sentenced to death—without right of appeal. Every time the word “experimental” is uttered, it triggers a frenzy of gavel-thumping.

No matter how compelling the story, if it breaks the unspoken rules, it risks exile from the shelves of respectability to the frozen tundra of obscurity.

But the truth is: the rules exist so they can be broken. If you realize that the best pieces of literature bend dogmas, shatter glass silos of genre, and create their own standards, you are free to proceed with reckless imagination.

Don’t try to please the judge.

Rise from the bench and start dancing to your own tune—and make it rain with words, puns, and unruly metaphors—unless, of course, you’d like to become next Jarndyce v. Jarndyce.

Case closed.

4/ The Abandon Lot of Self-Doubt

The Abandoned Lot of Self-Doubt is hard to spot in the corner of the Writer’s Block, hidden behind overgrown bushes and the rusting scaffolding of half-built, unfinished ideas. In the middle of the lot, Impostor Syndrome sits on a creaky swing, pretending to play—with feet never quite leaving the ground. It looks around and constantly compares itself to the ghosts of ever-better peers.

But we can clear and reclaim this lot. Somewhere beneath the bent scaffolds of unfinished drafts lies the original deed—the reason you claimed this space in the first place. Maybe it says, “I write to make this world a better place,” or “I create because it gives me an enormous joy.”

So, clear the lot. Dig out the deed. Read it out loud. Feel, again, as its rightful owner. And then, when you look around, you will no longer see The Waste Land.

You will say instead: “I will show you power in a handful of dust.”

5/ A Charred Alley of Burnout

Finally, we come to the Charred Alley, where once-vibrant cafes and colorful murals are now blackened and hollow, with chipped, broken bricks scattered around. This is where writers pushed too hard, fueled by ambition, perfectionism, or necessity, until the fire of creativity consumed itself.

If you find yourself here, don’t rebuild right away. Let the ground cool. Walk around. Reflect. Ask yourself: “What caused the fire in the first place?”

The truth might be that the last straw you “pushed through” landed on a haystack of repeated rejections, stalled projects, and sentences approximating perfection—all slowly drying in the heat of unmet expectations, and reaching slowly the ignition point of 233° Celsius.

So, to recover, give yourself a break from writing. Read, for a change, but just for pure enjoyment, not for research. Or change media—paint, draw, dance—to nourish yourself. And then, when the wind of healing blows away the ashes of burnout, you know you are ready to start again.

I hope that our little city tour through the Writer’s Block district will help you navigate through its strange architecture and meandering paths—so that, no matter where you wander, you will always enjoy the view.

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Andi Kopek is a multidisciplinary artist based in Nashville, TN. With a background in medicine, molecular neuroscience, and behavioral change, he has recently devoted himself entirely to the creative arts. His debut poetry collection, Shmehara, has garnered accolades in both literary and independent film circles for its innovative storytelling.

When you’re in Nashville, you can join Andi at his monthly poetry workshop, participate in the Libri Prohibiti book club (both held monthly at the Spine bookstore, Smyrna, TN), or catch one of his live performances. When not engaging with the community, he's hard at work on his next creative project or preparing for his upcoming art-focused podcast, The Samovar(t) Lounge: Steeping Conversations with Creative Minds, where in a relaxed space, invited artists share tea and the never-told intricacies of their creative journeys.